


Shame on Me

by fractionallyfoxtrot



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractionallyfoxtrot/pseuds/fractionallyfoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carl knows.  He knows men can be giant arses who often aren't worth the fuck. He isn't naive.</p><p>Martin, however, makes him hopeful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shame on Me

Carl wasn't naive.

He'd realized his inclinations in his teens; he'd spent the majority of his sexual history shagging men. He knew they could be stubborn, infuriatingly so, refusing to see logic even when the facts were laid out in front of them. He knew they could be selfish, to a fault, always looking out for their own wants and needs first. He knew they could be argumentative, disloyal, patronizing, thoughtless, and almost any other negative adjective he could think of; in general, he knew men could be giant arses who often weren't worth the fuck.

He was one, after all.

However, he hoped that at least a few tolerable ones existed and, despite all evidence to the contrary, he held out hope that Martin was one of them.

He certainly seemed worth the fuck.

* * *

They stumbled into Carl's flat, ties being discarded on the floor as Carl shut the door on the world and the little section of his mind that told him he had rules about this sort of thing, rules that he’d made based on personal experiences.

_Fuck and fuck off; shame on him. Re-fuck and fuck off; Carl, you're a fucking idiot._

Rules that he was choosing to ignore now that Martin was sucking a bruise into his neck that was guaranteed to show tomorrow.

Carl hastily worked the buttons of Martin's shirt, knowing he wouldn't be forgiven if he tore the damn things off. He went straight for Martin's belt and trousers as soon as his shirt fell open, creating more than enough slack to slide his hand down and stroke Martin's cock. Martin moaned - breathy, rough, and low-pitched - pushing Carl on to pull at him again; Carl was determined to be the cause of every sound that escaped Martin's lips.

The friction on his cock spurred Martin into action. He pulled at Carl's belt and trousers, forgoing his shirt all together, and pushed the clothing down so it bunched up at Carl's knees. Carl released Martin's cock to help with their undressing, pushing his trousers down the rest of the way so he could kick them off. He’d just managed to pull his shirt off over his head when Martin, who’d left everything but his pants on Carl's living room floor, took him by the arm and led them into Carl's bedroom.

Carl fell first onto the bed, Martin following to straddle over his lap, moaning at the delicious drag of their cocks as he leaned forward to take Carl's mouth. Carl slid his hands down Martin's back, his fingers digging into the flesh of Martin's arse as he held Martin to him, rocking his hips up to create friction, create noise. He grinned as he bucked against Martin's weight, feeling immensely proud that it wasn't just his moans and heated cries giving voice to their kiss.

Martin shifted the balance by pulling sharply on a handful of Carl's hair, baring Carl's neck for his lips and teeth. He bit down just below Carl's pulse point, barely pausing to run his tongue over the abused skin before doing it again, marking Carl with matching bruises that would show above any shirt collar. Carl's hands dropped to the bed as he surrendered to Martin's whim, struggling to fight down the rush of lust that accompanied the thought of being branded as Martin's for all to see.

He whimpered loudly at the third bite, placed above his collar bone, and consciously pushed his hips up, reminding Martin that there were other ways to take him and that Martin was welcome to them all.

Martin lifted his head to meet Carl's gaze, his blue eyes dark with something fierce and carnal.

"Lube," he demanded, sitting up to rid himself of his pants.

Carl twisted to reach his bedside table, feeling his pants being pulled over his hips and down his legs as he retrieved a tube of lubricant from the drawer. Martin took it from his hand and pushed Carl's shoulder down until he'd turned onto his stomach.

Carl lifted his haunches and chanced a look back over his shoulder, groaning softly at the sight of Martin pushing a loose fist of lube over his cock. He lowered his head and waited for Martin's first touch.

There was no preamble; Carl felt Martin's hands spread his cheeks mere seconds before the head of Martin's cock pressed against him. Martin slid in easily, eliciting heavy moans from both their throats; it'd been less than a week since their first shag and Carl had unsatisfactorily fucked himself every day in Martin's absence. He was more than satisfied now, his hands scrambling to find purchase as the stretch of Martin’s thick cock drove him perilously close to the edge.

Martin thrust once, twice, and then pulled out, leaving Carl empty and swearing into the bedding. He was nearly ready to start an argument when Martin wrapped both arms around his waist and dragged him down to the end of the bed. He put Carl's feet on the floor, kicking his legs apart, and bent him over as he shoved back into Carl’s arse.

" _Fuck_ ," Martin growled next to his ear. “That’s better.”

"God, yes," Carl panted in agreement, his words dissolving into whines as Martin’s next thrust passed over his prostate.

Martin began to fuck him in earnest, a stiff arm holding Carl’s back to Martin’s chest. Martin had him pinned to the bed, unable to angle enough leverage to move together with Martin's thrusts. Martin did all the work, fucking Carl with a force and strength that, until last week, Carl hadn't imagined him being capable of. Carl couldn’t do anything but _take_ so he did so with abandon, moaning, swearing, and crying Martin’s name as he’d wanted to for days.

The rhythm and pace beat into Carl’s mind, drumming out all other intelligible thought as he focused on the unraveling threads of his self-control. He grew quieter, trying to hold off his rising pleasure, while Martin grew chattier, breathing words of encouragement into Carl’s skin as he pushed them towards release.

“Come on, Carl,” he said, his tone far gentler than the driving press of his cock. “Come for me.” Carl felt Martin shudder, biting down on Carl’s shoulder before changing his mind. “Come _with_ me,” he urged, kissing the newest bite mark. “I know you can do that. Come on, Carl. I’m so fucking close.”

Martin’s hand came down to grasp Carl’s cock, pushing his thumb over the head as he whispered in Carl’s ear.

“Come. Come _now_. Come with me, Chuck.”

The term of endearment broke him.

Carl lost all sense of control, his head falling back, cheek brushing against Martin’s hair, as his orgasm slammed into him. He came in long white streaks over the duvet, some of the mess sliding between Martin’s fingers and his oversensitive cock. The surge of pleasure winded him and he was still trying to find his breath as Martin thrust deep into his arse and stilled, filling Carl with pulse after pulse of his come.

They didn’t move despite Carl’s trembling legs and Martin’s softening cock. They stayed pressed together, their shallow pants the only sound in the room, until Martin slipped from Carl and the sweat covering their bodies began to take on a chill. Martin kissed Carl’s nape - soft and tentative - before moving away, excusing himself to the loo. Without Martin’s support, Carl fell forward, face first into the bed, and dragged himself up so only his toes hung over the edge. He didn’t hear Martin return but he felt the warm towel moving between his legs, cleaning up the come he would’ve been willing to leave till morning.

The bed dipped as Martin lay down, too far away for Carl’s liking. He turned over slowly, his body fighting the very idea of movement, and threw an arm over Martin’s chest as he curled up at his side.

Carl fell asleep to the feel of Martin’s hand running through his hair.

* * *

Carl woke to an empty bed and a distinctive strain in his thighs.

He raised his head slowly, biting his tongue against the impulse to call out. He listened for the shower or water running in the kitchen, anything to indicate that he was alone in bed but not in his flat. He diligently kept his bedside table out of line of sight, not wanting to see what the little section of his mind - angry after being ignored - told him was waiting there.

Eventually, Carl glanced over to see the scrap of paper that made him sag, regret weighing heavily on his body.

He knew what the note said even before he saw Martin’s neat print.

_We can’t do this again._

Carl sank into his empty bed, crumpling and throwing Martin’s note to the floor. He shouted, swearing as loud as his sex and sleep-dry throat could manage, railing against the empty room but, most of all, himself.

Apparently when it came to Martin, he was naive as fuck.


End file.
